Restaurant Row was the place to go

Today, every part of Newport Beach is full of great restaurants,

but there was a time when that wasn’t the case.

At one point, the Balboa Peninsula had more than its share of

bars, but it could only claim two restaurants of style, Christian’s

Hut and The Doll House. All Newport had was the Arches. Mariner’s

Mile was nothing but a long stretch of bare sand with a few

ramshackle boat works to break the monotony. Balboa Island had to

struggle along with the Park Avenue Cafe. While its bar housed a

colorful cast of characters, the Park Avenue was never known as an

outstanding eating place.

In those days, if you wanted a good meal, you headed to Corona del

Mar. At the east end of town stands a Tudor-style building. This was

built by two very proper English ladies, Marguerite McCullock and her

mother, as an exact replica of a famous inn in England -- the Hurley

Bell. It was originally intended as their home, but they soon

realized its commercial potential and leased it to a series of fine

restaurant operators.

The first restaurant there was the Tail of the Cock, probably the

first really uptown restaurant in the city of Newport Beach. Run by

an ex-actor, Bruce Warren, it was hugely successful during the late

1930s and early 1940s, but World War II wiped him out. The wartime

blackout meant no traffic on Coast Highway and few customers.

After that, Fred Hershon ran the place as the Hurley Bell with

superlative food. After he left, it continued as the Hurley Bell

under a variety of owners with varying degrees of success until 1965

when the Five Crowns took over. Check out the parking lot almost any

evening, and you’ll see that it’s as popular as ever.

On the other side of Coast Highway toward Marguerite Avenue was

the Drift Room operated by “Monte” Montgomery and his wife Reba.

While not in the same class with the Tail of the Cock or the Hurley

Bell, the Drift Room could hold up its head with any modern-day

restaurant.

At the corner of Coast Highway and Marguerite stands a building

that has seen about as many changes as one can imagine on a single

site.

First, it was a bakery operated by Papa Gino Borero, father of

future restaurant great Gino Borero. Papa Gino owned that whole

corner. He built a modest bakery and then made it into a beer joint.

Then Robert Hill came along. He was a successful restaurant operator

from Pasadena. He leased the property from Papa Gino, tore down the

bakery/beer joint and built the Chef’s Inn.

He turned the operation over to his daughter, Claudia “Coy”

Hutson, and her husband, Hugh, and they made it into the most popular

watering hole in town. Not only did it have outstanding food, it had

a very, very popular bar featuring a superlative piano player named

Mel, whose last name I’ve forgotten, and a well-liked bartender named

Hersh McMillan.

Hugh Hutson was killed in an airplane accident and Coy lost

interest in the place and, for a while, it seemed like a jinxed

location. The Chile Pepper, Alijandro’s, Mario’s, The Hungry Tiger,

Bernard’s, The Studio, the Corona Cafe -- those are the

establishments I can remember opening and closing there, and then

Bandera’s came along and, from the lines I’ve seen outside, it’s

overcome the jinx.

Up where Brio’s is today, Joe and Adelaide “Mama” Rossi ran the

warmest, most delightful restaurant, where they dispensed the very

finest Italian food. They spoiled me. Everything was handmade,

nothing from the can, nothing pre-prepared. Mama Rossi prepared

pickled mushrooms, which were collector’s items. Her secret? All of

her mushrooms were wild, picked in the hills back of town, and not a

toadstool in the lot. Since Rossi’s closed, I’ve never found Italian

food I like.

Rounding out the lot was the Jamaica Inn, built by Joe Collins and

Bob Ingraham at the corner of Avocado Avenue and Coast Highway. In

the hands of first Fred Button and then Art LaShell, the food never

came up to the standards of the other memorable restaurants, but for

a number of years, it was the place to go.

I have one particular memory of it. Some man in the bar began

giving me a hard time one night about some case I had tried, and Don

Vaughn, the very large ex-professional football player, dragged him

off his bar stool, held him with his feet a few feet off the ground

and shook him so hard I thought his head would come off his

shoulders.

“The judge is a friend of mine,” Don said.

That was the last anyone heard about that case.

* ROBERT GARDNER is a Corona del Mar resident and a former judge.

His column runs Tuesdays.